Victorious
by incurableidealist
Summary: In which John and Sherlock are not flatmates.They are just two people who meet by accident and well,fall in love.With the added impediment of a certain clingy, obnoxious and delusional "partner" by the name of Victor Trevor.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**_

_**I wrote this in a fit of pique. It's a typical Johnlock Romcom complete with a vamp/villain-in the form of Victor Trevor.**__**In my last story, Victor was the martyr and since I am fond of mixing things up-Victor is the sort of bad guy in the story.**__**Don't feel too bad for the sod, believe me, I have met a few like him in my 17 years of existence; and they are NO fun.**_

_**Fluff abounds, so make sure it doesn't turn you into a bunny rabbit by the end of the story. This story wasn't planned-new chapters will appear subject to the reactions it gets.**_

_**Oh, and since I associate all stories with a song-well, the song that plays in my head when I read this is Aguilera's Ain't No 'll make a weird kind of sense to listen to it before/during/after your reading of the story.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

John Hamish Watson was bored. Utterly, bone- wrenchingly bored. You couldn't tell it by looking at the man-he wore that irresistible smile of his just so, his brow was furrowed in concentration to what the person in front of him was saying and he laughed at the appropriate moments. He had great practice at keeping his boredom reined in. His date was chuffed to have at last found a guy who actually listened and smiled so beautifully.

John had had his share of bad dates. If there had been a worldwide competition for The-Most-Boring-Dates-Ever –Endured-By-Man, John Watson would win hands down. That was even when you discounted the date in which the person opposite had chosen to tell him in great detail what one saw when one dissected the male genitalia. Of course, the vivid description was a desperate attempt to get John all hot and riled up and panting. But John felt nothing whatsoever in his nether regions and instead mildly felt nauseous. He couldn't look at sausages the same way _ever_ again.

Now we come to the person opposite. John was bisexual, as a result of which he dated both men and women in a futile effort to find someone _interesting._ Was he asking for much? Pump his blood up, get the adrenaline flowing and keep him from lapsing into meditative comas in the middle of dates and he would give you a big sloppy kiss on the mouth and be yours forever. And one never ever gets what one wants without wishing hard. Yes, wishing till you were purple faced with concentration. Wishing like you were a four year old who was being toilet trained.

One more thing, John Watson is _not_ the wishing type. He is the _doing _type. And what is it that he _will _do? He'll go on dates till the end of time. He'll fill himself with bad, occasionally good, food, cheap wine and fake laughter and forced humor all in the name of seeking that endless mystery that love is.

There had been a few odd times when someone had actually fulfilled the Three Commandments to Being a Better Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Significant Other/Whathaveyou to John Watson. They were few and far between, an oddball mix of people comprising of firefighters, detective inspectors and ex-army men like himself. Convincing himself that he had found the One, he would trot along like a giddily happy unicorn till the diabetic sugar castles he spun in his head would unspool and fall down with a tinktink.

_Wake up, Johnny boy._

Most such flings involved infidelity. No, the partner in question would not cheat on John. Oh, no. (Who on Earth would cheat on John-Three-Continents-Watson?)They would be cheating _with _John. The most embarrassing one to date was when John's patient at the clinic he worked in suddenly started crying about how her husband was being unfaithful and all and how life was the saddest thing that happened to humankind. She poured her heart out to him, poor thing. A great many unsavory details were divulged and when the miserable bat asked John why his ears were red, he had to make up some highly implausible excuse about the air conditioning malfunctioning and his body heating up.(Only your ears heating up, John? Really?)

_Boy have I had a wild roller coaster ride looking for love. Not even love, just companionship. Non-boring, adrenaline pumping, bone thumping companionship._

_I should get myself a fighter jet. Satisfies all criteria._

So, where were we? Yes, John Watson and his lovely date. Frankly his date, Mary, was an absolute pain in the hole. He had picked her up at Tesco's judging her to be good company solely by the sight of her ample bosom.

_How wrong I was._

The woman had gone to great lengths to keep her bodacious décolletage shielded from John's prying eyes. When he had seen her enter, he had huffed a sad sigh.

_I might as well go home right now._

Mayhap he had been wishing hard enough. Just when he thought he would actually, physically die of boredom, two men waltzed into the room. Two tall, cloaked men who had satisfied grins on their faces. They looked like they just had absolutely thoroughly shagged each other. Or somebody. The taller of the two men had verdigris eyes and alabaster skin that stretched over alien-esque features. He had an air about him; he looked like he was the tempest, swirled around the small café in his humongous coat and that smile of his could kill. Did you hear me? _Kill._ Strong men like John Watson could resist it but even they bore signs of impact. The other man had a somewhat less angular face and Italian Carrera marble cheekbones. He was somewhat quieter and more, for lack of a better term, effeminate.

John was pleasantly distracted by these two men for a while, gaping open mouthed at them; so much so that he did not notice his date look at him like he was an insect, pack up her belongings and walk out. He was nevertheless rewarded for his perseverant staring by the pretty man's arse brushing his shoulder as the couple passed by to occupy the next table.

_I could do with something like that._

He cursed his luck soundly. Everything oh-so perfect on a platter and he couldn't stake a claim on it. Wasn't there a rule somewhere that tall, handsome men with cheekbones-that-can-cut diamonds and deep lush baritones and silky tushes should _not _date each other? There should be one like that, if there was justice in this universe and hope for men like John.

He sighed miserably. Here he was, thirty eight years old with not a single decent long term relationship to boast about, with a hideous limp, graying hair and a tired smile. He wouldn't have been able to tell you that the leather jacket he wore made him look five years younger and that blue-collared shirt that he wore open at the throat made his eyes jump out. And boy could those eyes do some serious fatal damage if they wanted to.

He rose to leave.

"Excuse me, is this yours?"

That deep lush baritone that John had been talking about? It was here. And it was wrecking havoc.

The prettier man (Gosh, what was it with this guy and words? Prettier man? Really, John?) Looked up at him and held a mobile phone in his hands.

John smiled his most bedazzling beguiling smile that he had perfected in front of the mirror twenty five years ago.

"Must have fallen out of my pocket. Thanks."

The said man smiled. Not the toothpaste model smile he had worn earlier but rather a tug at the edge of his lips that resulted in a lopsided smirk. His eyes crinkled.

_Will you please be mine? Yes, you, gorgeous thing._

Right, where was he?

Aah, the mobile phone .The object was duly returned to its owner without any further ado. John was surprised to find himself hoping for their fingers to brush in the exchange. To John's great dismay, they didn't.

He now turned his attention to said gorgeous-thing's partner who was looking at him with an air of aloof interest. H e had been cut mid sentence and was waiting to resume his bitter diatribe about how he could never date the woman he wanted because everyone just assumed he was gay with aforementioned Gorgeous Thing. (Or so John hoped)

He took a moment, regained his soldier's stoic acceptance and equanimity, turned on his heel and walked the hell out of that sodding café.

Had he looked through the window, he would have noticed that one of the two men was looking out the window, watching John as he limped past.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who fell in love at first sight. He'll tell you that he doesn't even _believe _in the concept of falling in love at first sight. But buried deep down in his analytical brain that tore the world around him to pieces of _data, _there was a tiny shred of thought, of _sentiment_, that hoped for a day to come where he, Sherlock Holmes, would fall in love at first sight. He pushed that annoying tendril of thought to the back of his head but did not delete it entirely. Today, that little tendril rejoiced-it had been proven correct. Sherlock Holmes was officially in love with someone whom he had seen only once in his lifetime.

Although he will vehemently deny it, Sherlock was consciously _waiting _for this. He had read and heard his fellow humans rapturously exclaim about being in love and frankly he was tired of it. What kind of experiment is one where you can only rely on empirical results unless by some stroke of luck you were allowed to participate too?

As he sat there, one half of his brain actively occupied itself with cataloging his emotions and physiological reactions while the other half kept up with Victor spouting inanities about the crime scene and the markings on the body. Racing pulse, dilating pupils, slick, sweat-coated palms, a general sense of euphoria, scenes flashing through his head.

_Blue shirt that was freshly laundered although unironed. Lives alone. Jacket with a slight bulge to the left pocket. House keys. Also indicates that he is left handed. Mud stains on shoe are from some part of Lambeth. Going by the tincture stain on his thumb and a faint smell of carbolic soap, doctor. A doctor in St. Thomas'. Carried a cane but limp is psychosomatic. Held himself like an army man, hair cut the like one so soldier, tanned, wounded in action. Invalided home. Mobile had inscription. Harry Watson. Brother, most likely. Alcoholic brother who this man disapproves of. Most likely walked out on his wife, the brother that is._

He knew everything there was to know about the mystery stranger he had just met. What he did not know was why he was taken with this seemingly ordinary man. Was it the eyes? The smile? The voice?

One can never know all the answers, even when one has the deductive, melon-sized brain of Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

"Hmm?"

Someone was touching his wrist and tapping it gently. He looked up to see Victor waiting for him to respond, an expectant look on his face.

"Uh, sorry, I just, umm, need some sleep. Haven't slept in the past week."

"No, but you have to eat first, that's why we came here. I can bet my entire year's pay that you haven't got anything edible back in Baker on, finish your dinner and you can crash after."

"Stop mothering me, Victor.I am no child. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Victor was taken aback.

"You've never complained before."

He slid his hand to take Sherlock's.

Sherlock instinctively twitched his hand out of reach. Victor could swing anywhere from clingy to obsessive and Sherlock was emotionally incapable of handling him.

_Remind me, how did I acquire this parasite of unimaginable proportions?_

His conscious was quick in answering him.

_He nursed you through your worst times and helped run down Moriarty. He is your self-appointed caretaker and partner and Mycroft strives really hard to keep you two together. He thinks it's good for me._

_And since when does Mycroft dictate my romantic choices? , _he retorted.

Pretending to answer his phone, Sherlock excused himself and walked out of the café. Standing at the exact place where the stranger had been standing not a moment ago, Sherlock could see the entirety of the London sidewalk stretched out in front of him. Sniffing, he could pick out the faint trace of Dr. Watson's cologne. He allowed himself a small smile; after a meeting of exactly thirty four seconds with a random stranger, he felt like a smitten schoolboy. He glanced in through the window only to find Victor looking at him expectantly, hands clasped on the table. As Victor found Sherlock looking at him, he raised his hand in greeting. The internal dialogue kicked off yet again.

_Can this man ever get a life of his own?_

_Stop being so mean to him._

_I am not being mean. He is a bloody pain in the neck and I just can't seem to shake him off. I have tried every trick in the book, you know that._

_Yes, you have. With no observable results. Conclusion-STOP TRYING._

_And then what? Throw in my lot with that leech? Hell no._

As he strode back in, his conscience threw one last warning his way (_Sherlock, behave!). _He collected his coat and scarf, threw done three ten pound notes and mumbled some excuse about Molly calling him with an urgent request.

"Well, she didn't call me."

"Victor, she called me. Which means she only wants _me_ to have a look at the cadaver."

"You said urgent request. Dead people don't need emergency autopsies .That sounds like more like a personal issue."

"So?" Sherlock's patience barometer was slowly inching towards apoplexy.

"Molly always talks to _me _about personal issues because you simply can't be bothered to sit through one of her miserable soliloquies .Therefore, you are lying to me."

"Can't I lie to you?"

"Sherlock! Are you even implying that your answer to that question is an affirmative?"

"That wasn't a question. It was a presumption. And a correct one at that. Yes. I. Am. Lying. To. You."

Victor looked like he had been slapped. Sherlock made use of the momentary disbelief and turned on his heel only to hear Victor say "Well, I am going with you to wherever it is you're going."

_Here we go again. _

Sherlock grit his teeth. Swearing under his breath, he quickly planned his escape.

"Victor", he murmured, pitching his voice low. Then he started moving _towards_ Victor and made a great show of invading his personal space. He placed his hand on Victor's chest and angled his head towards Victor's ear.

"Just this once. Please" He rumbled in that baritone, a surefire way to get Victor to listen to him.

The Pavlovian response was immediate. It was as if someone had fired a bullet at Victor. His posture sagged in a way that would be unnoticeable to anyone with an untrained eye, his eyes dimmed and a small smile hovered on his lips.

Sherlock found his hand in Victor's. "Just be careful". Itching to shake his hand off, Sherlock smiled his best lopsided smile and took off.

_Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you bad, bad man._

* * *

As John sat in front of the telly watching Top Gear and nursing a cup of tea, his almost-defunct mobile phone sang.

_Who is bothered to call me at this ungodly hour?_

"Hello?"

"Hello, Dr. Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes"

"Sherlock who?"

"Holmes. We met today. At the restaurant. I, uh, handed you your phone."

_John, I think it's Gorgeous Thing calling,_ his libido nudged at him.

_Shut up. He has a name. It's Sherlock Holmes._

Returning to the phone, "Uh. . Call me John. Sherlock. How can I help you?"

_John! What is wrong with you? I mean I know you're out of practice but "How can I help you?"? Are you some suicide hotline guy?_

_Will you shut your face for a minute? It works usually. Plus, he can always answer that with "Can you please favor me with your company in my bedroom?"_

"Could you please favor me with your company?" and Sherlock paused here, leaving John with his wild imaginings as to what would follow.

_See?_

"Okay. Where exactly?"

"There's this Italian restaurant on Northumberland Street. Can you come in twenty minutes?"

"I'll be there."

He paid extra care to his personal toilette, showered, shaved and splashed on some cologne but wore the same set of clothes as earlier today just so that he wouldn't look too eager. However, all the while, a doubt was nagging him_. _

_Why is Sherlock asking me out when he already is in a relationship?_

_No clue, love. But, when you get a chance, you just grab the opportunity and hold on tight._

_Hmm. Not too bad, eh?_ He asked, examining himself in the mirror.

_I'd love to have a go at this._

John Watson was then rendered speechless by his own libido.

_Seriously? You aren't saying that just too make me feel good?_

_Honey, I exist to make you feel good._

_Touché._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was early. Early as a morning bird. Early as a teenager on his first date. He felt like an over eager schoolboy waiting for his violin tutor to arrive and teach him to play Vivaldi. But his brain was busy churning up more and more reasons for John not to arrive.

_Reason number 7:- He thought your bum was too huge._

_Reason number 45:- He thought your cheekbones were too sharp for his tastes._

_Reason number 67:-He just got a call from the A&E he works at requesting him to come urgently._

_Reason number 108:-He got carjacked on his way here._

_Reason number 123:-His leg hurt too much for him to come._

_Reason number 172:-He, like the rest of this world, is operating under the impression that you are in a relationship with Victor. Being who he is, he is desisting from meeting you in an attempt to not sabotage my non-existent relationship._

This went on till his brain started fixating on each customer in the restaurant and picking all their little lies apart. After a few minutes of this exercise, his brain got tired of the endless information on who-was-shagging-who and started obsessing on Victor instead. In an unhealthy, venomous manner that one adopts when fuming.

_What if Mycroft informs Victor that I am meeting John here? What if Victor takes it upon himself to chaperone me?_

He immediately started scanning the pedestrian traffic for any signs of Victor, so much so that he missed the polite cough from somewhere to his left. John stood there, looking bemused and wearing a general what-am-I-doing-here-oh-who-cares expression that sat so well on his features.

"Is this seat taken?" He asked, nodding to the chair opposite Sherlock's, eyes all crinkly.

Sherlock's face immediately cracked into a huge grin.

"John!Hi."

He stood up awkwardly but didn't know what to do next; shaking hands would be too formal, hugging would be too intimate, kissing was out of the question. He settled for standing there and grinning at John like a total nutter.

Angelo rescued them. "Candle for the table? Here are the menus; anything you want – on the house"

John's eyes widened momentarily as he browsed the menu for favorites.

"On the house? Is he sure?"

"Well, I helped Angelo out with… erm, something, a few years ago."

"Something?" John zeroed in at the word.

"I am a consulting detective John. I successfully proved to the Yarders that Angelo was not responsible for a vicious triple murder in Berkeley Square because he was in a different part of town housebreaking."

"Consulting detective?"

"The only one in the world."

"What exactly it is that you do anyway? Who consults you?"

"The police, when they are out of their depth, clients, when they want me to solve their problems, the Queen, now and then."

John spluttered on his glass of wine.

"Oh, come on, don't look so impressed. You're distinguished soldier yourself"

"How do you know that?" John just looked utterly bamboozled.

"Your posture, hair and the way you hold yourself screams military. You are also a doctor because of the tincture of iodine stain on your thumb and the fact that the mud on your sole is from somewhere near St. Thomas'."

John leaned on his elbows and looked Sherlock square in the eyes.

"You do know that when you do that deduction thing you are just incredibly amazing. Not to mention very irresistibly sexy."

Sherlock flushed to the roots of his hair.

"So, if you do know all that much about me, I am assuming you also know a lot more. Well, our introductions are done for then."

"You don't know anything about me"

"You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective who just also happens to be a genius, dapper gentleman and thankfully for me, you don't mind dating poor buggers like me. I have all the necessary data for now I think. Is there anything else I should absolutely know?"

John tilted his head such that the candlelight pooled at his eyes and made his hair glow liquid gold. As the first of many firsts, John had rendered him speechless. That smitten schoolboy feeling was creeping back.

"Umm. No.I, uh, don't think so"

"However I would like to know one thing. How did you get my phone number?"

"My brother Mycroft. Works in the government. We have an old agreement and he owed me a favor.""I saw your name on your ID tag clipped to your belt", he added, by way of explanation.

"Mycroft? The one you were with at the café today?"

This was John's roundabout way of asking who that pretty bloke was. They hadn't talked about Victor at all and Sherlock didn't want to bring it up. But the line of inquiry was so direct; Sherlock decided it was best to nip it in the bud.

"No, that was Victor. Victor is my…." Sherlock paused here not sure what to say.

"Boyfriend?" John supplied.

"If he was why would I be asking you to dinner John?"

"You wouldn't be the first to do that to me, you know"

"Well, in any case, Victor is not my boyfriend. He is an old friend and my current flatmate."

"Does Victor know that he is not your boyfriend?"

Sherlock was flabbergasted at John's ability to read into a relationship without help. He fumbled trying to answer the question till John came to his rescue.

"It's alright, I am prying. I just don't want to get in between you two. Broken enough marriages already"

Sherlock smiled at that. Yet gain. Twice in less than fifteen minutes. This had to be a personal milestone.

"Don't worry about that."

The food arrived and the conversation eased into general small talk. John was an enchanted audience to all of what Sherlock had to say; which was mostly case narratives. John couldn't stop the flow of superlatives from his tongue as he marveled at Sherlock's skill. Sherlock kept going on, showing off for John and generally basking in the glow of John's appreciation and borderline reverence. They talked through two bottles of wine and sat there till the restaurant was empty of all save themselves. Oddly enough, neither man can tell you what they talked about that night. Each of them just wanted to hear the other's voice, look into the other's eyes in the candlelight and marvel at how the universe worked to bring the two of them together.

Finally, it was time to go.

Sherlock was just about to pop the my-flat-or-yours question when Victor arrived at the doorstep.

_Shit._

Victor scanned the empty restaurant, the two bottles of wine and then his eyes came to rest on Sherlock.

"Why the hell aren't you picking up your phone?" Victor asked sounding every bit like the nagging housewife he was.

John had a bemused expression on his face and tried to intervene on Sherlock's behalf.

"You must be Victor. Pleased to meet you. I am John Watson."

Victor put on his most obvious of fake smiles and shook hands."Charmed."

"Sherlock and I were just leaving."

Victor sported the world's largest question mark on his face. John felt the need to elaborate and worsen the situation.

"No. I mean, umm, we were just leaving for the flat. You know, our respective flats."

Sherlock winced.

_This is rather fun, isn't it?_

Victor obviously had had enough. He turned to Sherlock with one eyebrow raised to the heavens."Your phone, Sherlock? Is it dead or in need of medical assistance? "

"I, umm, put it on silent for the duration of the...er...of the..."

Awkward doesn't even come close to describing the situation right now. It was a melee of oneself, one's ex-partner and current flatmate and one's current partner and future flatmate.

"I'm sorry, Victor. It was just that we were introduced by Lestrade and got talking."

Victor gave the Significant Eyebrow Raise.

"I'll be leaving", John said, ever the gentleman, "it was lovely meeting you Sherlock, and you Victor."His voice carried a trace of amusement.

Sherlock wore an expression which roughly translated into _Can the ground just split into two and swallow me whole right now?_ John could barely control his giggles.

John walked out with a nod to Angelo's. Sherlock just stood there shuffling his feet and trying to avoid looking Victor in the eye.

_Fuck up of epic proportions. The world can end safely now._

Which was when he saw John's cane resting against the wall.

Thank god for small mercies.

"Sherlock! Where are you going?"

"I, just, erm, need to give this to John", _oh no that sounded too familiar _"Dr. Watson, I mean."

And with that he was out, leaving a disgruntled and jealous Victor Trevor in the middle of yet another café, vanishing with a swish of his coat.

John hadn't gotten very far before he was accosted by Sherlock. His limp was barely there and not noticeable at all. One look at the detective's face and they both started giggling. They went on and on, clutching at their stomachs and hanging on each other to still the tremors. Each time they tried to stop laughing, one of them would snort and off they would go again.

"Oh, Sherlock. Did you leave him stranded there?" panted John.

"I did, yeah. God he's such a colossal prick."

"I could make that out, yeah."

"John, please, please don't let me go. I just need to get rid of the bastard and then we can be the way we want to be."

John replied to Sherlock's passionate declaration by dragging him down the nearest alley and snogging him senseless. Sherlock's surprise was overcome by his desire and he responded in kind. It was gloriously dirty and so full of want Sherlock could feel it radiating out of their collective entangled self. John made quick work of his shirt collar and started working amorously on his long pale neck.

After some more feverish kissing and groping, they separated. John, ever the cautious one, pointed out that Victor might get suspicious and come around; the last thing they needed was for Victor to catch them necking near a dumpster.

After one chaste kiss on the cheek, John led them out under the streetlight.

"Oh dear. I think I left you a hickey."

"A what?"

"Your neck Sherlock. There is a very telling purple bruise on it."

"Good then. I don't have to do the distasteful job of chucking Victor then; he might just be angered by my infidelity and bugger the hell out of my life."

"Easy there, tiger."

They just stood there, wringing their hands, discomfort oozing through their pores. What do you tell a man you had met just hours before and fallen in love with in the meantime_? _

_Catch you later, perhaps? Snog you later? Goodbye? That was one hell of a first snog? Same time next week?_

"I'll see you around then."Sherlock said awkwardly.

"See you around? Is that the line you're going to give me then?" John's expression was carefully controlled but Sherlock, being Sherlock could tell he was hiding his amusement well.

"I don't know what to say! Am I supposed to express regret that I don't get to shag you senseless tonight?"

"Atta boy. That's what I am talking about."

Sherlock looked at John and smirked.

"Well, here's what we'll do then. You have my number, so you call me whenever you can get some time off that pretty boy of yours."

"Pretty boy? Who, Victor?"

John rolled his eyes. The unsaid _duh_ spoke volumes.

"He is an ogre, let me tell you. The clingiest man in all of London and I assure you, the least likely to inspire love in anyone. And speaking of pretty boy, you are no less yourself Dr. Watson." Sherlock added a lascivious wink for enhanced effect.

"Now, you're being mean."Obviously John would feel it more important to defend a stranger's honor as a clingy man than accept a compliment.

"Say that after being held on to like a crab for three years."

"I didn't peg you for the long suffering type. You are more the no-shit Sherlock."

"Well, I made it very clear right in university that there would be nothing whatsoever between us. Fell on deaf ears I suppose. The tosser then worked around the problem by renting the same flat as me."

"Have you never shagged him?'

"Nope."

"Gee. That is commitment flipped on its head for you, Sherlock."He touched Sherlock's cheek, ran a thumb on his jaw line and pecked him on the lips one last time. "I should be going."

* * *

Victor was no blind idiot, he'll have you know. So when he sees a certain gorgeous consulting detective re-enter Angelo's with a flush riding high on his cheeks, inhaling air twice a faster, pupils blown wider than a mile, with three buttons of his shirt hanging open and adjusting his scarf around his neck, he smells something fishy. Something fishy that also smells like John Watson's cologne. It wafts up every time Sherlock moves that pretty neck of his.

Victor attains apoplexy in milliseconds. It's quite an admirable feat and a terrible vision to behold. A lesser man would have quavered under his rightfully angry gaze and dropped his pants but Sherlock just casts an eye over him and says, "Tut-tut. Victor, anger does not flatter your complexion. Come along. I bet we'll be in time for Mrs. Hudson's midnight cuppa."

**_Thanks for reading. I 'd also like to thank the highfunctioningpotterhead here-my first fandom friend and someone who expressed a desire to see more of my stories. This is for you!_**

**_And if I am a chemical experiment, your reviews would be my Sherlock._**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N**_

_**The boys are back! I am really sorry for taking this long but between travelling and catching the flu, I didn't get much time to write. I really want to thank all of you who read, liked and reviewed this story and wanted to see more of it .This is for you guys!**_

_**Enjoy!(This one might be a bit long to make up for the delay)**_

* * *

"Watson, you have been awfully fidgety about something since morning. What's going on?"

"Unh. Nothing. Bad headache." John lied.

Well sort of. Thing is, John was giddily happy. Like run-through-the-fields-barefeet happy. So John, being John, felt compelled to hide his happiness from the commoners opting instead to sport a grimace and rub his forehead incessantly. Try as hard as he may, he could _not _concentrate on his work because, well, his mind was running through his umpteenth replay of last night, pausing at certain moments, rewinding and replaying others and fast forwarding through the awkward bits. It had been one day, or to be precise, 17 hours since the Spectacular Snog in the Alleyway and John was getting antsy for more.

_Was that even real?_

_Hell yes it was._

And, John thinks, no John knows, that the way they did it, almost clandestinely, like a secret to be kept from Victor, was what made it even more fun. And boy would he have loved to see Victor's expression when he beheld the Most Prominent of Hickeys since the start of time.

Sherlock had texted him twice that morning, something about using riding crops on corpses(John suspected there was some innuendo involved) and when John had finally resigned himself to his crippling boredom which involve faking smiles and lending a concerned ear that came with his profession, his phone pinged.

_Come to Baker Street at once, if convenient .SH_

He grinned at his phone for a full minute.

_Wait, did the great Sherlock Holmes proposition me through a text? J_

_Do be more attentive John. I spent two hours last night propositioning you. Now I intend on following through with my wicked intentions. SH_

_What about le boyfriend? J_

_Le boyfriend should make his way to my bedroom at the earliest. SH_

John was positively blushing.

_I meant Victor. J._

_Don't have the time to think of hateful flatmates. SH._

_He might make things a bit inconvenient. J_

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

And then there was a photo attachment. John was literally salivating when he opened it. And, no, don't avert your eyes. It was a photo of Sherlock's pale neck. With John's lovebite showing prominently.

_Bugger it all_.

Not sparing a second thought to all the humanitarian services he would be rendering in the afternoon were it not for Sherlock, John stabbed his hands into his coat and made his way to Sarah's office.

Sarah had, once upon a million years, been a love interest. They still met up for an occasional lunch or dinner but the relationship dynamic had settled comfortable into "friends" and once every blue moon, shag buddies.

Which is to say John could ask Sarah for a humongous favor and get away with it. And now was the ripe time.

"Sarah, I really have to be elsewhere this afternoon. Would you mind?"

John crossed his fingers. He expected an expression akin to horror, the kind of horror you would feel if someone asked you to boil live puppies, dawn on her face.

Today was to be a day of endless surprises.

"You do? Oh, ok, off you go then." she gave him tired smile.

"Really? Are you sure?'

"Yeah. Absolutely. I owe you for that evening with the French stockbroker anyway."

"Er…oh, that one? You're right. Well, I best be off." And then John did something that was as much of a surprise to Sarah as it was to him-kissed her on the cheek.

*_fistpump*_

Behold the return of John's Inner Voice of Clarity, aka his libido,

As he made his way to the exit, World War Three began in his head.

_John, this is severely irresponsible of you. What if one of your patients dies of, oh I don't know, tetanus from some gardening wound or, or a previously unheard of tropical disease or, or_…Before his conscience could get any more creative, his libido sprung into action.

_Relax; Sarah is taking care of them. And what did I tell you about grabbing opportunities?_

_But what about dereliction of duty? What about the Hippocratic Oath? You are a doctor first John_.

_John is a man first. A man with needs._

_I still feel this is woefully wrong on your part._

_No one asked you for an opinion._

John Watson was a silent witness to this feisty debate. The baser part of him overcame his rational side; and John suspected that whenever a certain Sherlock Holmes was involved, it wouldn't be the last time this happened.

* * *

John stood outside 221B Baker Street and stared at the door for a whole five minutes.

_Press the doorbell John._

The hand to the doorknob stopped its journey midway. Not for a lack of courage or manliness (certainly not that, his trousers were uncomfortably tight) but because of a different kind of worry. Frankly, John could not believe that this was happening to him. He was so smitten with someone he had known for just a few hours, and that someone was such a catch. Sherlock was heartbreakingly gorgeous; a genius in his own right, consulting detective and so damn interesting that

John kept waiting for God to smite him. Or for something to go horribly wrong.

_Don't worry John. He already smote you when he gave you a Victor Trevor to deal with._

That was true. But they would cross that bridge when they came to it. Instead his surgeon's brain ran through a pre-op checklist.

_Raging erection. Check._

_A heart beating a tattoo. Check._

_Reddening ears. Check._

_Slick, sweat-coated palms. Check._

_An urgent need to drop your pants. For all the right reasons. Check._

_Lube and other sundry items. Check._

The door to 221B Baker was opened by a small, mousy lady with kind eyes who was dressed entirely in purple.

"Yes?"

"I, umm, am here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"You must be Dr. John Watson. My, my. He was right when he said you have a je ne sais quoi."

"Sherlock hasn't shut up about you since last night." she added conspiratorially.

The violin music issuing from somewhere above stopped abruptly when John turned an uncomfortable shade of red and let himself in.

"Come along then. He's right upstairs. Must be anxious to see you." John could have sworn on his dog tags that Mrs. Hudson (landlady, Sherlock had told him about her last night) meant that last part in a _nudge nudge wink wink_ manner.

Oh lord.

Then he remembered to actually go upstairs and see Sherlock. Also possibly flail like a sixteen year old girl.

_Into the breach._

As he reached the landing, the door opened of its own accord and a long hand clothed in blue silk yanked him in. He found himself being kissed by Sherlock Holmes before he could so much as mutter a word.

"Mmm, Sherlock. Wait. Let me…." John gave up all futile attempts to resist Sherlock and threw himself wholeheartedly into the snog. While the Alleyway Snog would forever go down in history as the Hottest Thing That Ever Happened to John(after Sherlock), John had to admit there was something nice about snogging Sherlock in a proper flat without the fear of being caught out by the police or Victor, and without the aroma of garbage wafting up his nostrils.

Sherlock pulled away abruptly and huffed a contented sigh.

"I just absolutely _had_ to do that. Now, you were saying?"

John stared dumbstruck at Sherlock. Cicadas chirped in the background.

"Problem?"

John regained his composure at the speed of light. Something told him that being dim and demanding was not going to earn him many favors from this detective.

"Erm. No, nothing. Umm, hi."

"What?"

"Never mind. I didn't peg you for the platitude type."

John cast an eye around the flat. Every available surface was covered with papers, there was a test tube rack on the table, the two couches had worn upholstery, what looked like a stack of correspondence was affixed with a jackknife onto the mantelpiece, two bullet pocks graced the wall opposite and a beaker full of a garish pink liquid bubbled merrily on the stove. The flat was screamed _Sherlock_ through every available surface.

"Your flat is very nice."

"My thoughts exactly."

"And where might Victor be?"

"Oh god John. The sheer number of times you ask about that sticky sod is worrying. Are you sure you aren't interested in him?"

"Not fair." John pouted.

"Well, he is off finishing some boring paperwork with Lestrade. He won't be around for a while."

"I see. And why aren't you out solving cases?"

"Waiting for an interesting one to come my way."

"So I am just distraction?"

"Of course you are. Cheap entertainment."

"Tease."

"Now shut up and get over here."

Sherlock had relocated himself on the sofa, looking entirely too delicious than he had any business being.

_Jump at it, John. Go, go, and go._

And who would blame poor John for giving in to his instincts?

Five minutes later found the pair snogging on the couch and this time they both meant business. Clothes were shed, sometimes even shred, in their urgency and the shagging plans were far beyond their contemplative stage.

Which was when the pair of them heard someone coughing politely.

_John, there is someone STANDING right there and watching you come undone just by kissing Sherlock Holmes._

John, in his passionate fervor, completely ignored this Voice of Rationality (aka Not his libido) coming from inside his head.

The coughing now changed tone to a loud hacking.

Simultaneously, consulting detective and ex-army doctor held up a finger each, Signal for _Mr. Holmes and Dr Watson are otherwise occupied at this moment. Please try again later._

"Sherlock."

Sherlock squirmed in his position, indicating his displeasure at being distracted. His lips remained glued to John's and eyes firmly shut. Emboldened by his response, John pushed his hands further into Sherlock's messy curls and clung tighter.

"Sherlock, we have a case for you." The disembodied voice was a low gravelly baritone, and it had rich undertones of irritation and amusement, as if saying, _yeah, yeah you've had your fun now_, and John was pleased to note, it did _not _belong to Victor.

"Mmpmmh."

"Some business magnate died mysteriously."

John reluctantly pulled away from Sherlock, with a noise similar to a drainpipe being unplugged.

"You both look such a sight. Lucky I didn't bring the other Yarders. Now, get a move on, someone has personally requested for your assistance."

_Please tell me this isn't actually happening._

_I did warn you. This must be Lestrade. He is rather handsome._

So there they were, John in his undershirt and jeans, Sherlock in his pajamas and no T shirt on. They both looked utterly debauched, lips red and swollen, sporting Mohawks and stubble burns.

Sherlock regained his semblance of normality in a millisecond as if Lestrade had caught them doing nothing more scandalous than shaking hands or drinking tea.

"I'll be right behind."

Lestrade gave a curt nod and glanced in John's direction, smirked, turned on his heel and left.

John caught Sherlock's eye and they both burst out laughing.

"Wow. There go our spectacular plans of shagging. Second time lucky, do you think?"

"Hardly, John. Of course I intend on shagging you today. We'll just have to postpone it for a few hours." Sherlock pressed one hard kiss onto John's mouth and danced around the flat dressing himself.

John Watson had seriously no clue on what to do next. What was the protocol for times like this? Was there even a protocol for a time when you are caught making out like a teenager with a man you have known for only eighteen hours by a complete stranger?

So in a situation where most others would have ceded control, John did what John does best-Act completely in control.

He started by gathering his wits about him, clutching at Sherlock's silky blue dressing gown to cover himself up in all his modesty; he couldn't help but note how the robe smelled delightfully of Sherlock and he _may_ have licked the collar while hunting for his socks. As he set about dressing himself, Sherlock appeared at the doorway, Great Big Coat et al.

"You are a doctor. In fact, you are an army doctor."

"Deduction of the century."

"Any good?"

John puffed his chest up and stood tall. "Very good."

Sherlock moved closer.

"Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

And just like that, they were off.

* * *

_John, come to North Greenwich immediately. SH_

_Much as I would love to run around with you, I have a job to keep. J_

_John, but it is absolutely necessary that you come. SH_

_Sherlock, if I skip a shift again, I will not have a job to come back to. J_

_Your job is boring. SH_

_I couldn't agree more. But I need the money. J_

_Money is boring. SH_

_For us mere mortals, it is what runs life. Can't come. Sorry. J_

_You're no fun. SH_

Frankly, how was John supposed to respond? They had been dating(_hopelessly primitive euphemism for what I and Sherlock are doing, but what the hell_) for all of two weeks now and John had had more fun, sex and running around than he had in thirty eight years of existence. Sherlock was the one thing that made the world go from black and white to Technicolor in a flash. He was the one beacon of hope and redemption in John's life. Being a bore was a surefire way to lose Sherlock's attention. And if Sherlock's attention wavered, it could have disastrous consequences for John. He would have to go back to his previous life, where he asked out old, desperate ladies who dropped their knickers all too easily and bored him.

But John did not want to lose himself completely. He was a doctor; he had saved people's lives all his life. It was his identity. Having a whirlwind romance with a man he had not laid eyes on till two weeks ago did not mean he could shirk his duty. His responsibility. So, no matter how much he was otherwise occupied, his pretty arse would stay parked right there. Sherlock could come get it if he wanted to.

_Uh oh._

Thinking of Sherlock and "pretty arse" in the same sentence was not a wise thing to do in the middle of your shift. Now John started imagining himself doing the dirty with Sherlock on his examination table. Mrs. Darcy was not distracting him one bit with her ear infection melodrama.

_Come on John. You fired rifles in the bloody warzone. Stop acting like a teenage girl. Man up now._

Well, technically, that was what John's body was doing. Manning up. His pants started getting too snug and the room suddenly felt hotter by a few degrees.

John tried to squelch all feelings of arousal by crossing his legs and imagining doing it with Mrs. Darcy. Who was an eighty two year old lady with more wrinkles than a bullpup. And who may or may not have developed a bald patch.

_You're a brave man, John Watson. Not everyone can take on Mrs. Darcy. Sorry, I meant Sherlock Holmes._

_Not HELPING._

One thing every person who has met John for even five minutes can tell is that the man is blessed with truckloads of patience and stoicism. If the world ever ran out of fortitude, it could borrow some from one John Hamish Watson. So conditioning his mind to think _I have to be here; I can't cavort around with Sherlock on the streets of London,_ was easy peasy.

* * *

Later that evening, after a long tiring day filled with common colds, sniffles, ear infections, broken ankles, hairline fractures and other not-so-interesting diseases, in short a day where John prayed someone got fatally injured so he could have some fun; John was invited by Sarah over to some fancy place in South East London for a pint. Not your ordinary local pub mind you, this place was neck deep with the cognoscenti. As John dolled up for the night (blue shirt-check; expensive cologne, the one that Sherlock likes- check; best suit owned-check), he remembered that the bar was located in the same place where Sherlock was. Maybe they could meet up and…

_Must not get hopes up too high._

_Are you still in South East London? I am coming there. Want to get a pint? J_

_I don't get a pint John. SH_

Oddly enough, John could picture Sherlock's face wrinkling with disgust at the idea of doing something so plebeian.

_OK. Will rephrase that to-Want to get your tongue down my throat?_

_Would love to. But am on case. Will talk later. SH_

And that was the end of it.

_Fine, fine. I'll go out with Sarah and have a bloody good time. Fuck Sherlock. I can have a life of my own._

The evening had other plans in store.

So they went to the fancy place-which was a bit too fancy for his tastes- and tried to get themselves as sloshed as they respectably could.

"Nice place, isn't it?"

John was in half agreement, his mind abuzz because of the alcohol. As he swept his eyes across, he caught a familiar silhouette. A _very familiar _silhouette.

_John. It's Gorgeous Thing sitting there._

(Bless the man's libido. Even two weeks later it was calling Sherlock Gorgeous Thing)

John had not thought it possible but Sherlock looked even more gorgeous than he did otherwise. His hair hung low over his brow; he wore a midnight blue suit and a pale blue shirt. But John's mind only partly registered that fact. Because it was too preoccupied dealing with the first thing he saw Sherlock doing.

Playing tonsil tennis with Victor.

Which is to say, snogging the living daylights out of him.

Victor was no passive receiver. He gave it back as good as he got it; his hand was slowly creeping up Sherlock's neck into his hair. Something John always did when he kissed Sherlock.

They broke apart, but their foreheads were still touching, cooing at each other in a manner even newlyweds found disgusting.

Needless to say, John's libido went into hue-and-cry mode.

_John. JOHN! The love of your life is SNOGGING someone else._

_I can see it you git._

_That is some fine kissing action though. Look at how he uses his tongue. And where he places his hand. You have to give it to him; the man knows how to snog._

_MISSING THE BLOODY PICTURE HERE!_

_Yes, yes. You are absolutely right. COME ON JOHN! Get your bum over there and show them...show them...oh…I don't know…_

Which is when a _third _man came into the picture. Even by John's lofty standards which deemed anything other than Sherlock an ogre, this man was bloody brilliant. He had ginger hair, a shy schoolboy grin, large hands and bow lips even more prominent than Sherlock's. He clearly nursed a fascination for men eating each other's faces, (_kissing, John!)_because only he, apart from John, seemed conscious of the fact that two men were making out bang in the middle of the place. While John's features remained neutral and controlled (what did we tell you about stoicism and John?), Ginger's face displayed an open interest in the two mating creatures in front of him.

The proceedings moved from sensual to downright pornographic when the snogging resumed and Sherlock groped Victor's arse.

_In a way he only ever touched John's arse._

At the precise moment when Victor touched Sherlock's, ahem, thing between his legs- two things happened. Ginger broke into a grin that threatened to split his face into two and jumped up and down on his seat ,while sitting on it(Not Houdini stuff, just looked like teen flailing) and the word "Control" erased itself from John Watson's dictionary.

Which is to say, John lost it.

And here is the thing about people who have mountains of tolerance and stoicism in them-when they snap, the world can just go screw itself while they deal with the object of anger. All notions of propriety can go take a long walk off a short pier. Reactions can range from anything like loud bellowing, hysterical shrieking, acts of extreme violence and even _bloody murder._ Their wrath simmers and then boils over.

And John's anger was teetering at the edge of apoplexy.

Remember how Victor thought _he _was apoplectic after he deduced that Sherlock had kissed John? Suffice to say that Victor's definition of apoplexy needs revision after comparison to John's.

"Sarah, I just need to go see a man about a man."

"What?"

Sarah received silence in answer. John set his drink down and coolly walked over to the table where the three were sitting. And no, he did not bark his head off or upturn the table like Al Pacino or slap Sherlock or anything. He calmly tapped Sherlock on his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled out of the kiss immediately. Victor seemed reluctant to let go.

"Excuse me. Is this yours?"

_He'll remember this. It's the first thing he ever said to me._

John held up a set of keys._ His _set of keys to Baker Street. He couldn't have made himself clearer.

Noticing that Sherlock's lips were red and swollen, his pupils were screaming arousal and his hair was standing up (it made him look more handsome than ever, but John would not admit that to himself at this point), John failed to see the expression of utter dumbfounded bafflement on Sherlock's face.

_*fistpump*.John-1 .Sherlock-0._

Victor was, as ever, a mute spectator. He could have been smirking; John's hand itched to throttle the pair of them, but John had better things to do than spend his life in prison for a double murder.

Ginger regarded John with an open interest, looking him up and down, as if saying, _not too bad yourself._

_Bingo._

Since all sanity and caution was gone with the wind, John walked up to the other side of the table were Ginger was seated and made himself comfy.

In a manner that was not at all "sexually suggestive".

(Which is the very thing it was.)

"I have been looking at you for a while. I am John. Can I buy you a drink?" John spoke in his most fruity, flirtatious tones, as if making up for the bad pick up line.

"Hi John. I am James"

_John-2. Sherlock-0_

To be fair to both parties, Sherlock was staring agape at John who had by now climbed into James's lap and was mouthing James's earlobe.

James seemed appreciative. Sherlock seemed thunderous. Victor seemed amused.

Someone cleared their throat loudly,

"James, do you want to", John jerked his head," go someplace else?"

"Wouldn't mind at all."

Since anyone is not clear at this point of the events, James had taken an active interest in John, looking positively _feral_ at the idea of ravishing him.

Sherlock decided to intervene.

"John, can I talk to you for a minute?"

_Bastard._

"Do you know this man?" James asked John, looking irritated at the interruption.

"I used to." John turned to Sherlock and said "Not now, I am busy."

"Please John, it is important."

John was loudly smacking James's lips by now, which was answer enough.

_John-3. Sherlock-0_

* * *

It is a testimony to the amount of affection Sherlock had for John that he did not walk up to the bar and stick the martini glass up James's,well,never mind. His mind started running through his index of gruesome murders and ancient torture methods that were designed for maximum longed to inflict them on James before turning him over to the police for committing the horrible crime of kissing John Watson. And touching him inappropriately. And flirting with him. And making him laugh. And breaking and entering into the cozy cocoon Sherlock had built with care.

The whole bloody while, Victor just _sat there._ He tried getting his hair back into place and crossed his legs and warmed the sofa.

_Insufferable git of unfathomable magnitudes._

Sherlock surreptitiously stole James's whisky and drank the whole thing in one go. He just _had _to get rid of the taste of Victor in his mouth. Victor tasted of breath mints and coffee and stale eggs. It had taken a lot of effort on Sherlock's part to keep from throwing up into the other man's throat.

Plus, nothing about him tasted like John.

"I hope that gave you a taster of what it will be like if you and I were together."

_Oh, a very good introduction indeed. Very,_ very_ accurate taster._

Sherlock bit down on his tongue and gave Victor a non committal grunt in answer.

"Sherlock, you have just seen John carelessly throw away your relationship, however farcical it was, after seeing you kiss me. He didn't even bother finding out the facts before he was all up in James's pants."

Sherlock shot Victor a smoldering look. Designed to kill.

_I am not getting keyed up by this bastard and letting go of John. John has just been rendered irrational and completely senseless by envy. He just needs to get it out of his system._

"Stop being such a child Sherlock. You can't fancy yourself to be in love with a man you barely know."

Grunt.

He began playing _I am not getting keyed up by this bastard and letting go of John _in a loop in his head.

"I just want you to know that if it doesn't work out, I will always be there for you.'", Victor punctuated his cheesy promise with a smug smile. The kind of smile that translated what he had just said into "_I hope this doesn't work out for you and you come crawling back to me with a broken heart and I inflict you with my false concern and neediness for the rest of your life."_

Sherlock rarely indulged in profanity but the situation seemed to warrant let lose some of his frustration by means of some very inventive swearing which sounded a bit like this:-

_Rabid cur. Brainless oaf. Fucking maggot ridden corpse that can walk about. Fucking cadaverous parasite. Arsehole!_

He didn't let Victor hear his string of invectives lest he swoon. Thankfully for him, Victor excused himself to get another drink.

Sherlock could now pay his full and undivided attention to John who, by the looks of it, was now actively participating in some very, very imaginative propositioning.

Two vodka shots and a lot of flirting later, Sherlock saw James and John leave the place; undoubtedly to go to James's flat.

Now one must know that Sherlock Holmes is not good at many things. Like doing his own laundry, like knowing the planets in the solar system, like knowing the resident of 10 Downing Street and like knowing who Madonna was sleeping with. But the one thing he was really, appallingly, atrociously bad at was _impulse control._

So he could completely be forgiven for grabbing John's elbow and placing a well deserved right hook on James's cheek.

Needless to say, he got a shiner for his pains and John remained without a date for the rest of the evening.

Which was not to John's liking at all. (_John-3. Sherlock-1)_

(And is there a stage of anger beyond apoplexy? If anyone ever finds out about one, please let John Watson know. He will find it vastly helpful in describing his mental condition at this point when narrating the episode to his grandkids a few decades later.)

So when Sherlock found himself being dragged by his collar scruff to the gents', he knew he was in deep, deep shit.

John calmly shut the door behind him, checked all the stalls and turned to face Sherlock.

Being on the receiving end of John's murderous stare can result in one of two things- you may end up vaporized or vandalized.

Sherlock picked option two.

"John, what were you doing out there?" ever the one to plant his foot firmly in his mouth.

John punched Sherlock on his cheek, then grabbed his neck and rammed him against the nearest wall. Mind you, dear reader, he did all this to a man who is self-proclaimed bare-knuckle boxing champion. If that is not the ultimate evidence to a certain ex-army doctor's badasstitude, we don't know what is.

"ME? YOU HAVE THE GALL TO ASK WHAT _I_ WAS DOING? YOU WERE THE ONE WHO STARTED IT!"

"John...Joh...uhhn", Sherlock was struggling to get words out

_My windpipe is being constricted by the very man I love._

Desperate times breed desperate men.

So, Sherlock, in a maneuver worthy of his hubris as a boxing champion, tried to put John on backfoot.

By kissing John.

_This should blow his brains out,_ the clever, clever detective thought.

And the six foot tall, heartbreakingly gorgeous detective we had been talking about? The one who never _ever _is wrong?

Well, he was wrong. Like you-didn't-miss-the-mark-by-an-inch-but-by-a-yard wrong.

Because, it was _he_ who ended up with blown out brains. Figuratively, of course.

All due to the fact that John Watson outdid his kissing technique that day.

Anyone who has ever kissed John, even his ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends who regret ever having let such a fine thing get away, will tell you that John is damned good kisser. They'll tell you that his kisses are like the man himself-careful, considerate and loving; sometimes passionate and a bit handsy. He'll never try to eat your face and invade your tonsils; he'll never, ever make it about himself. He believes that kissing is a two-person activity so the emotions it entails must take the parties involved into consideration.

This time John broke all the rules.

Because, goddamnit, John Watson was _angry_ and _vengeful._ He was demanding, possessive and invasive; he kissed Sherlock's mouth in places the man never knew he had. He yanked a handful of Sherlock's hair up and bit his lower lip, kneaded with his mouth and grabbed Sherlock's arse. As Sherlock moaned into John's mouth and began letting his hands wander south, John pulled away abruptly. Keeping his face two inches from Sherlock, he asked," What the fuck were you doing, Sherlock sodding Holmes?"

Sherlock whimpered at the rough, gravelly voice John had employed (he got that voice every time he was aroused beyond imagination) and made a desperate ploy to have at John's mouth.

John pulled just out of reach and held Sherlock at arm's length; he suddenly went eerily quite in spite of the very obvious fact that one consulting detective was thoroughly cataloguing the territories of his tush. With his large hands.

Tilting his head and looking at Sherlock as if he were something found in the sewage, he said,

"Go on."

Sherlock set about gathering his wits about him. Took his hand off John's arse (Bad_ Sherlock! Now is not the time for inventive groping),_ huffed a deep breath, jumped onboard his train of thought and explained,

"That man, James, is a serial killer. Lestrade found a rash of killings were two young men or a young man and woman were found dead right after copulation. My deductions told me there was a third person in the room, right before they were killed who would watch them and sometimes participate. After a week of hunting him, I found the man. Since there was absolutely now way to pin it on him unless we caught him in the act…we had to bait him. Hence I acted like I wanted a threesome with him and Victor and he could watch and participate as he liked. I really wanted you to be my pretend-partner, since you are my partner otherwise, but you refused me your cooperation and I had to work with the best I got."

"Wait, did I just _snog a_ serial killer?"

"Yes. I didn't intervene till later because he wouldn't have harmed you- he only ever kills people in pairs. However, I deemed it necessary to intercede when you were leaving because, well, I love you and unless you have fallen out of love with me, which is clearly not the case here, I don't want to see you have sex with anyone but me."

Sherlock's Caribbean blue eyes came to rest on John's as if trying to divine John's thought processes.

John's declaration of his forgiveness and undying love was punctuated by the sound of the loo door being opened and Victor's irritating tenor speaking.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Since his livid rage had not abated properly yet, he just looked over his shoulder at Victor and said,

"Hi, Victor. Good to see you. Now if you don't mind, my boyfriend and I have a few things to sort out and would like some privacy. Feel to free to leave anytime soon."

_Wow, Johnny boy, didn't know you had it._

_Fine. Fine. FINE. I have been rehearsing that one for ages._

"I don't care about whatever lover's tiffs you two are having! Sherlock just got punched in the eye and he needs some medical attention."

"And who better to give it than a doctor? Shut the door behind you when you leave. Cheers."

"But, bu…"Victor lost his voice.

So Victor tucked his tail firmly between his legs and mercifully left them alone.

Sherlock had been shut all this time, his hands on John's waist, pressed against the wall with both of John's hands on his arms.

The minute Victor was out of earshot; Sherlock turned his glazed eyes to John and said "Oh God John. That was so bloody hot!"

John cocked an eyebrow, "It was?"

"Stop doing it, will you?"

"Doing what?"

"THAT VOICE! Your Mr. Army Captain I-am-in-command voice."

"My what?"

'Never mind. Get over here."

Peace was restored in paradise the only way John and Sherlock knew how.

Snogging. Of a very thorough kind.

_I love you and you love me and that is all that matters._

* * *

So when they emerged fifteen minutes later looking so obviously debauched(quick impromptu shag in the loo)that it could spotted from a mile afar, they both had huge, self-satisfied grins and mussed up hair.

Their faces fell in comically identical fashion when they saw Victor waiting outside.

"Sherlock. What took you so long?"

"Were you born without a brain or did it fall out when you shampooed your hair this morning?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was in the gents' for fifteen minutes with another man. We were obviously shagging. See, even the bartender can tell." Sherlock pointed to the bartender who stopped all his drink-mixing activities to stare at John and Sherlock, looking properly scandalized.

Victor blinked, turned red and turned on his heel. In that order.

"Don't wait up for me Victor. Am spending the night, possibly the weekend, at John's", Sherlock called out.

"What about the killer, Sherlock? James or whoever he was?" John asked.

"Lestrade is waiting for him at his hideout. I texted Lestrade the address as soon as James got interested and blurted it out."

"So, no case for now?"

"Nope,"

"Good. I finally get to shag you on a proper bed without having your text alert punctuating your moans. What is the disgusting noise your phone makes anyway?"

"A man sighing erotically."

"Huh." _But wait_. "Man? Which man?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his sub textual _duh _drowning out all noise.

"You, John."

"Me? I do NOT make such noises in the bedroom."

"Of course you do."

"I do NOT."

"Well, it's your word against my recording of the Legendary Noises Made by John Watson When Otherwise Occupied."

"You have a recording?"

"It was for science, John."

So, here endeth the episode of How John Found Out About Sherlock's Favorite Text Alert Noise. Albeit, told in a roundabout, old-fashioned way.

_**Thanks for reading. All your reviews are thoroughly appreciated. I'll also utilize this opportunity to ask for some help-Firstly, someone needs to teach me to play strip poker because, well, the boys might or might not play it in the next one. Secondly, if there is a certain scenario you want written about, let me know and I'll try my best to write it well. Thirdly, I couldn't think of a suitable song for this chapter and I find that irritating because I neurotically associate every story/chapter with a song. Any suggestions?**_

_**Also, James looks like Benedict Cumberbatch(in case that isn't obvious)**_

_**And more chapters will appearing with the aid of my unicorn army(which is you guys)**_

_**Please review and let me know what you think! You can also find me on tumblr at **incurableidealist dot tumblr dot com._


End file.
